


would your eyes turn green

by honeyfig (figure8)



Category: K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Confessions, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 12:32:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18969361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/honeyfig
Summary: Jaemin, no matter how hard Renjun tries, isn’t an equation Renjun can solve.





	would your eyes turn green

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not a teenager anymore, but i was one recently enough to remember how everything felt monumental and terrible but also how easy it was to just say shit to each other sometimes, you know?

The first time it happens, they’re on M! Countdown.

Backstage, Jaemin is unusually silent as they get rid of their sparkly outfits and stage makeup. He’s always hyper, after a show - babbling, uncontainable. He’s calm in a sullen way today, wordlessly taking off his pants, efficiently wiping off his foundation eyes fixed to the mirror. Jisung pokes him in the ribs and Jaemin doesn’t retaliate, just offers him a fond smile. Renjun frowns, teeth digging into his bottom lip. He’s riding his own high, in his own way. Electricity sparkling on the surface of his skin, the lightest buzz. In these moments it’s easier to communicate by touch. He reaches for Jaemin, wraps two fingers around his wrist. Jaemin goes rigid for a second. Almost imperceptible, except Renjun’s attention was already focalized on him, analyzing. Renjun frowns deeper.

It’s a fleeting issue, a glitch. Jaemin goes back to his agreeable persona soon enough, and Renjun chalks it up to tiredness. No one can keep the facade going at all time, he would know. He’s seen Jaemin at his worst; on the floor, head in the toilet bowl, in a hospital bed. He doesn’t know why this one small moment in an Mnet changing room bothers him this much. It feels _personal,_ somehow, except Renjun cannot quite put his finger on _why._

 

He finds out months later, on stage this time, at a festival. In the whirlwind of goodbyes, under the confettis, and surrounded by way too many people, he grabs Wen Junhui’s hand by mistake and Junhui bows, an adorable confused expression etched on his face. When Renjun turns to share his embarrassed amusement with his members, Jaemin looks like he just swallowed a lemon. His gaze is - well, not exactly murderous. Dark, maybe. There is a stiffness to the way he holds himself, terribly uncharacteristic, his dancer's fluidity punched out of his body. Renjun is overtaken by a powerful sense of déjà-vu.

Then Junhui taps him on the shoulder, leans down to whisper in his ear in Mandarin, something funny about the stage lights, so inconsequential Renjun forgets it barely a minute after they part. In the dressing room, then in the van ride back to their dorms, Jaemin is - himself, but guarded. His smile is tight, thorn in his side. And Renjun spends the short journey surveying, calculating. Input, output. Two times can still be a coincidence. Between correlation and causation there is a thin, thin line he’s not quite sure he is ready to tread. Sometimes he wonders, if a side effect of idolhood is this augmented ego, this self-importance. Jaemin, who is so human so naturally, whose gentleness comes in waves, probably does not have that problem. It’s people like Renjun, with their carefully constructed selfdom, who find themselves sitting cheek pressed against a cold car window overthinking their bandmate’s microexpressions. He closes his eyes, pictures himself asking, point blank.

_Were you jealous?_

He feels ridiculous. What is there to be jealous of? His focus? Renjun is generous with it, as far as Jaemin is concerned. He shakes his head. Tucks that childish thought away. Stops trying to assign meaning to Jaemin’s every move.

It says a lot more about him, certainly, that he’s made a puzzle out of this. Jaemin, no matter how hard Renjun tries, isn’t an equation Renjun can solve.

 

They order Chinese food for dinner. Renjun sits cross-legged on the edge of the couch while Jaemin starfishes across it, looking up at him topsy-turvy. Around ten Chenle and Jisung disappear into their room, and Jeno grabs a pair of headphones and sinks deeper into his armchair, eyes glued to his phone. Like that, especially without Donghyuck, the space feels awfully silent.

That must be what makes Jaemin’s voice so loud, and sudden, when he says, “So you know Moon Joonhwi.”

No question mark, a statement. No honorific either. And if Jaemin is one thing, it is polite to a fault. He’ll drop the _hyung_ once in a while to annoy Mark, but it’s a game. Renjun has never heard him skip a _sunbaenim_ before.

“Everyone knows Jun,” he shrugs.

Jaemin arches an eyebrow. “I don’t.”

“You know what I mean,” Renjun rolls his eyes. “I think he feels responsible, in a way. He checks up on us sometimes.”

“So he’s just being a good _gē,_ is that it? Because he doesn’t need to. We have our own hyungs.”

Warmth spreads through Renjun’s abdomen. For a second he thinks it’s vindication. It sure feels good to be right.

It’s when he vocalizes it that he realizes he played himself.

“You’re jealous,” he says, aiming for teasing. Instead he sounds atrociously _hopeful._ He doesn’t think it shows; he’s pretty certain on the outside he still appears perfectly calm, smirking, but inside his chest an anchor is sinking into sand.

“I’m not,” Jaemin grimaces immediately, but his face is flaming red. He pushes himself upwards so they can look at each other properly. “I’m just,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “You just - you look at him. Like he’s, I don’t know. With this fucking weird expression that makes no sense.”

“I think he’s cool,” Renjun protests, which probably sounds taunting, but at this point he’s functioning on autopilot.

“You think Taeyong-hyung is cool,” Jaemin says, “But you don’t look at him like he hung up the stars in the sky.”

Renjun squints, presses forward. “So you _are_ jealous.”

Jaemin looks distressed. _“No.”_

It’s a dizzying sensation. Renjun has the vague awareness that he won something, but he’s not exactly sure what.

“I’m _curious,”_ Jaemin insists. “Because the only other person you’ve ever looked at like that was Winwin-hyung, and I know what _that_ was.”

Renjun’s face is suddenly _burning._ “I never had a crush on Sicheng,” he says, mortified.

“I never said you did. Wait, do you have a crush on Jun?”

“I don’t have a crush on anyone,” Renjun drags a hand down his face, anguished.

Jaemin tilts his head to the left. “This sounds like that thing you do where you say you would never do something when we both know you absolutely would. Like that time you said _I would never eat cookies that do not belong to me_ and then proceeded to finish Mark’s entire secret stash of Chips Ahoy! without breaking eye contact with me.”

“Can we go back to the part where you’re jealous of one of our seniors because he _knows me?_ ”

“I’m not jealous!” Jaemin repeats. He sounds less and less convincing.

Renjun rests his chin on his hand. He throws a glance at the armchair, in which Jeno is snoring softly now, mouth slightly open.

“You know, at first, I thought I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jaemin hides his face in his palms. “I’m an idiot.”

“Jaemin,” Renjun says very slowly. This is a little like solving a math problem, he supposes. Maybe Jaemin _can_ be figured out in the end. “Do _you_ have a crush?”

Jaemin peaks through his fingers. “On Jun?”

Relief floods through Renjun’s veins. The urge to strangle Na Jaemin is familiar and welcome. “No, you absolute moron. On me.”

“Maybe!” Jaemin raises his hands in the air.

“You don’t have to sound so angry about it.”

Jaemin glares. “It’s a very angering process.”

Renjun’s heart is leaping like a frog in a box. He smiles.

“For what it’s worth, I really don’t have a crush on Wen Junhui.”

Jaemin stares dubiously. “You said you didn’t have a crush on anyone.”

“I’m, ah,” Renjun grimaces, “Working on that one.”

“As in?”

“As in I’m figuring it out. I’ve never been anything else than, like, vaguely infatuated.”

The spark in Jaemin’s eye is back, most of the embarrassment receded. “Winwin-hyung definitely is worthy of infatuation.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Renjun warns.

“But you like me,” Jaemin grins.

“I said I was figuring it out,” Renjun sighs, which he is 90% certain is more socially acceptable than _actually, I think I might be in love with you, and I know that because I spent the last few months obsessing over the downward curve of your mouth._

Jaemin slides back down until he’s laying on his back again, looking at Renjun upside down. Objectively, he’s perfectly positioned for a less strenuous reenactment of the Spider-Man kiss.

“I’m sorry I was a jerk,” he says in a small voice after a beat of silence.

Renjun refuses to tell him that two occasions of pettiness hardly qualify as _being a jerk._ If Jaemin understands Renjun thinks he’s the nicest person he’s ever met he’ll never hear the end of it; because Jaemin is also, paradoxically, absolutely evil.

“It’s fine,” he says, turning his head. “You’re fine.”

He doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go from there. The acknowledgement has filled him with warmth, like a carburator. During the first months of training as _Dream,_  he remembers how Jaemin was practically glued to Jeno’s side, and how it had felt like a permanent side stitch. Wanting someone just for oneself, it’s human. It can mean - it can mean many things. People crave exclusivity.

“We should wake Jeno up,” Jaemin says. He scoots up the couch like an awkward caterpillar, until the top of his head is resting against Renjun’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Renjun nods, automatically reaching down to pet his hair. It's silky, softer than it has any right to be after so many bleaching sessions. He likes the feel of it against his fingertips. “Yeah, sure. In a second.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter dot com slash yifanapologist ~(˘▾˘~)


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